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PS 3545 
.H52 S6 



1898 



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"V^^V^ ^[''^•V^ V**"^^^/^ ^" 




Songs of Good Fighting 



Songs 

of 

Good Fighting 

By / 

Eugene R. White 




LAMSON, WOLFFE AND COMPANY 

Boston, New York axd London 






WHHH 



Copyright, 1898, 
By Lamson, Wolffe and Company." 

A II rights reserved. 



^0 COPIES 



^£C£IV£0. 




CONTENTS 

Dedication, ii 

A Song of Good Fighting, i 3 

A Buccaneer Chorus, i 7 

The Lees of the Wine of Wrath, 20 

The Song of the Men of Teach (1718), 23 

Of the Lost Ship, 26 

A Song for the Lull in the Fight, 28 

The Song of Morgan's Men (1670), 31 

A Song of Three Seasons, ^^ 

The Song of Sawkins' Men (1680), 35 

A Song of the Freebooters, 37 

A Buccaneer Toast, 39 

Of the Great Lakes and the Sea, 41 

Envoy, 48 



To H. P. T. 



DEDICARE 

WE are they that seek the Clew, riding 
for the Name, 
Past the wayward winds that blew, 
past the lures of Fame ; 
Men fail and the words of men, shall deeds of 

men fail, too ? 
A rouse for the Endless Errantry, we that seek 
the Clew ! 



For the Name thrice-murmured in our 
ears 

Is a spur ye never knew. 
Who listed laggard throtigh the Years, 
Nor sought to gain the Distant View. 

Leave Love and the Lover — 'tis ours to discover. 
Though Death be the portion of this our Long 

Quest ; 
So in with the rowel, out with the avowal, 
The Oath of the men who know riding is best. 

Though the Clew, mayhappen, long ago 
Was passed in the Vale of Youth, 

Yet yonder hill, for all ye know, 
May bear a sign of the Utter Truth. 



Songs of Good Fighting 



Lay the lashing by — never ! we still seek tJie 

lever 
To pry the Great Secret from God's granite 

lips; 
By the Oath we essayed it, by the Name we 

ha' prayed it, 
Forsworn in the service of Blood Fellowships. 

Though the marrow ed bones of the early 
Band 
Long since have ashed to dust, 
We'll reach at least what they have 
spanned, 
By the zeal of the riding-lust. 

We are they that seek the Clew, riding for the 

Name, 
Past the wayward winds that blew, past the 

lures of Fame ; 
Men fail and the words of men, shall deeds of 

men fail, too? 
A rouse for the Endless Errantry, we that seek 

the Clew. 

—i8g8 



12 



A SONG OF GOOD FIGHTING 

AND it's oh ! for the days when Men were 
Men, and Souls were feoffed to Flesh, 
And the raucous call of a sea-born brawl, 
with the gray winds running fresh, 
Thronged through the hearts of Saxon men as 

they aimed the Death-stroke true ; 
Drank manhood up from the Battle-cup — the 
wine of the gods' own brew. 

O goodly men of other days, who died in a 

well-fought fight. 
Whatever may your lives have been, your 

deaths, at least, were bright ! 
And blood, they say, will purge away the smear 

of blot and stain. 
And the Seraph looks at record books washed 

clean by a crimson rain. 

If justice meed or Christian creed has pulled 

Heaven's latchkey in. 
There's Woden's hall will hold you all who 

died in the Good Fight's din. 
You are far and away too great to stay with the 

gentle, pious folk 
Who hoarded Life with a niggard soul and 

cringed before the Stroke. 



13 



Songs of Good Fighting 

There may be pits of molten flame for Cozeners 

and Thieves, 
And Burning Spits for Hypocrites, in the 

Gath'ring of the Sheaves ; 
But none for those who fell in fight, and used 

their ebbing breath, 
Not in a useless prayer to God, but a Saxon 

curse for Death. 



Weak-watered, in these petty days, it is yet in 

the heart of Man — 
Its roots, deep set, by blood were wet since 

ever the Earth began — 
This love for the sight of goodly fight ; and, 

whether on land or sea, 
The Valiant Kin are lusting yet for the Strong 

Man's empery. 



It was there in the day the Cavemen strove 

with hatchets they struck from stone ; 
It rang through the strife of early life with 

crunching of ax-clove bone. 
It was writ on the face of the Teuton race — on 

their muscles and arms and thews ; 
When the Vikings drave through the Northern 

Seas it sang to the spray-dashed crews. 



14 



A Song of Good Fightmg 

It was there in the hardy English Isle, it rang 

in the twang of the yew, 
And the arrows whistled a glad refrain from the 

bows which the archers drew ; 
And when Spanish hosts, like baffled ghosts, 

flapped tattered sails to Spain, 
The chorus rose with a mighty swing o'er the 

heaps of the Popish Slain. 



Let wan-faced Peace with mild increase bid 

Janus' gates be barred -, 
Wherever the blood flows red in hearts, where 

muscles there be and hard, 
There's an unknown stir for the days that 

were ; and the tale of a fight fought true 
Still makes the Saxon blood to dance to the 

tune their Fathers knew. 



And when the summoned lines of Souls up 

through the Ether swim, 
And herd before the Great White Throne and 

reach to the River's rim, 
Then raise your song o'er the Pallid Throng 

that cringe in white dismay- 
March boldly to the sight of Him as though to 

an earthly fray. 



I? 



Songs of Good Fighting 

Stand forth on that day, Sturdy Men, who 

knew no gospel of hate, 
E'en as you lived, so stand ye forth, who 

cavilled with none save Fate ! 
When the Prayerful Horde have their reward, 

and the Good have gained their Grails, 
Will naught else weigh on that Last Day with 

the One who holds the Scales ? 

—i8g6 



i6 



T 



A BUCCANEER CHORUS 

HEY say the Devil has fled from Heh 

To sail on the Spanish Main — 
By the yoke of the Spell, the Folk say well 
When they say that the Devil has fled 
from Hell. 



From out the Sea-Born Sunset is cast a crimson 
tinge — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men — 
The Gates of Hell yawn redly upon the 

World's grey hinge, 
And we sail to the Postern to see the Devils 
cringe — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men. 

The Sea moans Dead Men's Dirges, Shapes 
muster Soul on Soul — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men — 
There creeps a Cloud before us, an ashen aureole, 
The Beast of Doom has littered, and Morgan is 
her foal ! — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men. 



17 



Songs of Good Fighting 

And Life is but a Tavern, so let us stay and 
Sup — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men — 

And Death is in the Taproom and Death is in 
the Cup, 

And Death's a Merry Gentleman, so drink the 
potion up — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men. 



For though Life is worth the Living, when Life 
is on the Sea — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men — 

And it's worth the Devil's forfeit to let the arm 
swing free, 

And show the Spanish Dastards what Men the 
Rovers be — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men. 

Come, Death, you royal Gamester, and have a 
final bout — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men — 



i8 



A Bticcaneer Chorus 

For we are growing weary of the Revel and 
the Rout, 

And while the Dice are rattling, go Snuff the 
Candle out — 
With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- 
score Men. 



They say the Devil has fled from Hell 

To sail on the Spanish Main — 
By the Thrice-sworn Spell, the Folk say 

well 
When they say that the Devil has jled from 

Hell. 

—i8g6 



'9 



THE LEES OF THE WINE 
OF WRATH 

THE Y said that we should see it in the 
Parting of the Ways ; 
They said that we should find it in the 
Rounding of the Days ; 
They said an end' s to everything, though paths 

are often hid ; 
They said that we should know it — 
Afid we did ! 

Beyond the sea, where the shadows tryst, where 
the void has whelped its monsters grim, 

Where Hate and Spleen stand high and keen 
to gorge on the marrow of splintered limb ; 

There went we mute and masterless, there 
stood we face to face with Him. 

'Twas not for us to feel a fear, it was we who 

had hewed a narrow path, 
Through the sundered ken of what were men, 

a chrism of blood for the new-born' s bath ; 
We had slain and hewed, and hewed and slain, 

till the Fiends slunk by in baffled wrath. 

And God had passed for a hollow jape, and 
as for his coystrels, men, 



The Lees of the Wine of Wrath 



They are panders and punks, ask their head- 
less trunks — we have met them one to ten. 

Bow to the left, bow to the right, down the 
center and back again ! 

We left a town where the sun stood slant on 

the fardled dead in the whetted square — 
The murrey sun on a cruise foredone fluxed 

the West to a tawny glare. 
And a cozening wind coaxed at our sails, as 
we set forth to Otherwhere. 

Three years have gone since that fell day, 
three years have passed o'er a fated crew ; 

Each year is wet, should we forget, with 
goodly blood, with venomed rue ; 

Each year the Fiend foreflocks his souls, his 
richest tithe and revenue. 

Hard-hunted by the Spawn of Death, each to 

his end stood strait and fair. 
Not I, nor you, but the Devil knew, the end 

of them foregathered there. 
Elbowed by the ghosts of them, the fardled 

dead in the whetted square ! 

Some were slain by their fellows' knives, for 
a wench's leer in Jamaica's scews ; 



Songs of Good Fighting 

Somv. swung in chains where the sponging 
rains flushed their flesh which the crows 
refuse ; 

Some were found in their sodden beds, their 
eyes agape with Hell-hearth news. 

What hate-born bolt of this Thy wrath, awaits 

for me, the laggard one ? 
What baleful end shall Thou then send, to 

him forespent, for his race is done, 
Whose heart by hetcheling teeth of Fate, 

already teased and torn and spun ? 

Come as it may, not yet I pray churlish- 
kneed to thwart the stroke. 

Not fearful-eyed will he abide, the lone last 
man of the Sturdy Folk — 

Yet what was that which crept by then ? — 
Ha' mercy Lord ! was it Thou who spoke ? 

They said that we should see it in the Parting of 

the Ways ; 
They said that we should find it in the Rounding 

of the Days ; 
TTiey said an end^ s to everything — to bandy to 

troop y to C7'ew ; 
They said that we should know ii — 
And we do / 

—i8gS 



THE SONG OF THE MEN OF TEACH 
1718 

THE Townfolk talk of living — but we have 
sailed the sea ; 
And out upon the Niderings who strut 
in lace and state — 
It's a sorry life I wot ye, in the town where 

wenches got ye ; 
On the sea the storms allot ye 
The bludgeonings of fate. 

And oh ! the glory of it, a wrathful God 
above it 
May trumpet doleful thunders at the crime 
of being free ; 
A curse for churl and craven, a rot for home 
and haven, 
For we have got dominion on the Great 
^ Grey Sea. 

The Poets sing of Loving — but we have sailed 
the sea, 
And no low-louting jobernoll can sing us 
what is best. 
Here's one to hurr and hale you, here's one 

that will avail you. 
And which will never fail you 
Foregathered at her breast. 



23 



Songs of Good Fighting 

Your wench viay count her dozen — but 
here' s a dame to cozen 
No weak and puling little minx, no 
simperer is she. 
Out with your powdered faces, here' s one 
for Man' s embraces, 
The mightiest of mistresses, the Great 
Grey Sea / 

The Preachers prate of Godcraft — but we have 
sailed the sea ; 
A rot upon such canters — here's the good 
sea running wide. 
'Fore God's wrath let them falter, and drone 

their mournful psalter, 
Though we may greet the halter, 
We lived before we died. 



So let our hearts beat faster, there' s none 
that we call Master ; 
No cringe or crawl in htimble wise, nor 
bow on bended kyiee ; 
Salute no God nor Demon — but knotty- 
hearted seamen. 
We burn our red path Deathwai'ds on the 
Great Grey Sea. 



24 



The Song of the Men of Teach. 

This is the End of Living — to sail upon the 
sea, 
With head and breast uncovered to catch the 
stinging spray. 
A thirst, in blood we'll slake it ;" a galleon, 
we'll take it ; a colony, we'll break it — 
And then to sail away. 

So sail we on together, no tie our hearts can 
tether, 
And knave or coystrel, gentleman, whatever 
we may be, 
WVve slain the Spanish bastard, we^ve 
fought and cut and mastered. 
The world may be our headstone in the 
Great Grey Sea. 



25 



OF THE LOST SHIP 

WHAT has become of the good ship 
Kite? 
Where is her hull of chosen oak ? 
Who were the Victors, what the Fight ? 

The Old Wives — whom did they invoke, 
That should tell them so uncannily : 

''Fell through a crack in the Floor of the Sea ? ' ' 

"Trafficked with death in a cruise foredone," 
The Preachers drone to the Salem Folk, 

When the Sea has swallowed up the Sun 

And the white gulls glint — was it they who 
spoke ? 

Wes' -Sou' -West from the Devil's Quay: 

"Fell through a crack in the Floor of the Sea ? ' ' 

Of the old-time Band there's not a man 

Who has ever told how the ship went down. 

Were they marked by God with the fearsome 
ban ? 
Butchered they priests in a sun-white town ? 

Do they harry Hell where they may be : 

"Fell through a crack in the Floor of the Sea ?'" 



26 



Of the Lost Ship 



Though ye searched the West to the guttering 
sun 

Or the East till the baffled lights burn black, 
Or North to the bergs till the South be won 

The changeling shadows answer back, 
And their trembling lips pale piteously : 

' ^Fell through a crack in the Floor of the Sea ? ' ' 



And when the great grim Finger becks 
The whining Seas from their ancient bed, 

Shall some tongue speak from the world-old 
wrecks 
To read the log of the Thwarted Dead ? 

Is there never an end on the mystery : 

** Fell through a crack in the Floor of the Sea ? ' ' 



27 



A SONG FOR THE LULL LN 
THE FIGHT. 



T 



HE liquor brewed in the vats of Spring 

Has aged with the ageing year 
{^Here's to the strength its age shall 
bring~) 
Up / For the draught is here ! 



So here's to the Name, it's ever the same, 
And out on the cantrip the laggards call 
Fame ; 
Some end is beholden, all glamour and 
golden, let the Old Oath embolden — 
Here's to the Name ! 

And here's to the Way, God grant a Long Day 
Till we clear the fair earth of such dastards as 

they ; 
For the end's Armageddon, which the others 

ha' bled on, by the Name still we're 

led on — 
Here's to the Way ! 

And here's to the Pace, dismay not a trace, 
Outriding the Fiend in the Devil's own race ; 
Though hot be the spurring — on ! fresh, 
undemurring, the Romp is but stirring — 
Here's to the Pace ! 



28 



A Song for the Lull in the Fight 



The blue has ashed in the turquoise sky^ 
And dimmed to a hodden-grey ; 

But the Stars review, while I and you 
But wait for another day. 

And here's to the Hearts, the longing still 

smarts 
For an open-aired swing at their Baal-gotten 

arts ; 
But the cravens are hidden — out, knaves ! 

when you're bidden that the Path shall be 

ridden — 
Here's to the Hearts ! 

And here's the Reward — it's to each at the 
ford, 

Where Life takes from Death the old two- 
handed sword — 
And the belt we are tighting, the standards 
we're righting — the Reward is the Fight- 
ing !— 

Here's the Reward ! 

But it ' s thne to pause when the struggle 's 
done, 
And 7iot whe?i a day is bom. 
And the dead leaves lisp, and the ground 
treads crisp, 
And there is the new-washed morn. 



29 



Songs of Good Fighting 



For the Hope that Stirs in the Heart of 
Things 
Casts her Glove in the teeth of Doubt. 
Here' s to the Strength that the Old Oath 
brings. 
Soon! A7id we' II fight it out. 

—i8g8 



30 



THE SONG OF MORGAN'S MEN 
(1670) 

SAILING to Hell, the sea and her spell, 
Croon to the timbers a dolorous knell — 
An issue with Doom. Grant the knave 
room, 
We'll tear out his heart in the shadowless 
gloom. 

Sailing to Hell, Panama/ell, 
And Spaniards to God their scurvy tales 
tellf 



Let God lash the sea, the ship staggers free, 
Does He think then to frighten such callants 

as we ? 
Pass rum for a round — what masterless hound 
Refuses to drink when the sacrament's 

downed ? 

Sailhig to Hell, Panama fell, 
And Spayiiards to God their scurvy tales 
tell! 



31 



Songs of Good Fighting 

And here's to the Pit, a rouse that is fit, 
Fingers on Fate's throat till the braggart 

cries quit — 
Hell bratted the pup ! Roysterers, up ! 
And drain in your drinking each drop in the 

cup ! 

Sailing to Hell, Panama fell, 
And Spa7iiards to God their scurvy tales 
tell. 

—i8g6 



32 



A SONG OF THREE SEASONS 

WHEN the smell from off the Sea is the 
best of things that be, 
And the nackered Night lies ready 
for a kiss ; 
When the Rose's crimson choir chants the 
treble of desire 
To the distance-sifted violings of bliss ; 
When Delight is a flashing pageantry : 
This is the Time of Life to Be. 

For this is the Time to Be, my lads ; 

Here' s a cup to the Time to Be. 
And here' s to a rout with a hoydefi star, 
For the heart is jnoored to a juoonbeam bar — 

Toss it off- — to the Time to Be ! 

When the Fates from out their path turn the 
phials of their wrath, 
And the Sturdy get a buffet from behind \ 
When we know that gins are laid, and in silent 
ambuscade 
They are marshalling — the Demons and their 
kind ;■ 
When the stars seem strange that once we knew : 
This is the Time of Life to Do. 



33 



Songs of Good Fighting 

Yes / this is the Time to Do, Strong Hearts, 

In silence — the Time to Do. 
Here's the teeth set Jirm and the long sword 

dared. 
With never a thought how the Others fared — 
Glass tip now — the Time to Do / 

When we huddle to the fire and watch them 
piling higher 
The last feeble sand-lees in the glass ; 
When the rabble crowds without, with a jostle 
and a shout, 
Are singing of Life's largesse as they pass ; 
When the Wind has blurred the trail through 

the snow : 
This is the Time of Life to Know. 

Ah, this is the Time to Know, Old Friend, 

Will ye pledge it — the Time to Know ? 
For the shrouded minutes are ticking short. 
And a lone dog howls in the Inner Court — 
Here' s a last one — the Ti?ne to Know f 



34 



THE SONG OF SAWKINS' MEN. 
(1680) 



A 



N eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, 
Valiant or Suckling we give them no ruth. 
Quarter — we know not the meaning, for- 
sooth ! 
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. 



Throw the dead Dons upon the white Dunes, 
Scuttle the galleons, seize the doubloons ; 
We know the low lilt the Summer Sea croons : 
Throw the dead Dons upon the white 
Dunes. 

With cutlass for sceptre the Sea is our State 
And Death is our portion, come soon or come 

late ; 
So meet it half-way then, leave Cowards to wait — 
With cutlass for sceptre the Sea is our State. 

That Saxon and Briton may ravish the Main, 
And purge from the waters the pennon of Spain, 
We've Death for our Mistress and Fate for our 
Thane, 
That Saxon and Briton may ravish the Main. 



35 



Songs of Good Fighting 

Yon's a town on the Mainland where Jesuits 

hoard, 
Where trophies of temples by Spaniards are 

stored, 
We'll have it this fortnight despite the Good 
Lord — 
Yon's a town on the Mainland where 
Jesuits hoard. 

Give a rouse to the Morrow when first we attack, 
With a Ho ! from the Hearts for the joy of the 

Sack ; 
Then from each and from all of this Worshipful 
Pack 
Give a rouse to the Morrow when first we 
attack. 

-i8gs 



36 



A SONG OF THE FREEBOOTERS 

'* A ^^ ^^'^^ ^^^ ^^^ Dead Man live his life, 
/A Mistress Sea?'' 

The Dead Man' s life with blood was 
red, as the curtains o'er Death' s 
bridal bed, 
And the hands of the Slain have cursed his 
head 

From out of me." 

Then here's to the Bight where the Sea- 
wolves be, 
Here's to the Salt Sea's liturgy : 

Yo ! for the song that the Dead Man sang, 
Ho ! for the gibbet that feels him hang ! 
And he bows to the moon while the shadows 

flee ; 
Here's to the Salt Sea's liturgy ! 

Some for the Pennon of the Good Queen 

Bess, 
Ours is a service — masterless. 
Tho' Death is the Port on the Devil's cruise, 
And the timbers strain in the Good Ship's 
thews, 
Life is as free as a hawk from the jess. 
Ours is a service — masterless. 



37 



Songs of Good Fighting 



One is gone — but the rest are ten, 

Up with the glasses, Gentlemen ! 

Up ! with a rouse to ;ne Dead Man — he 
Still with the Band keeps company. 

To one more brawl on the Sea, and then- 

But up with the glasses. Gentlemen ! 

" And what shall light the Dead Man's Feast, 

Mistress Sea f ' ' 
" The Table's spread luhen Death is done, 

this is the light that shines thereo7i : 
The Eyes out-pliicked from the Slaiightered 
One 

For such as he / ' ' 

i8g6 



38 



T 



A BUCCANEER TOAST 

O the Fiend of the Seven Seas, 

To the Print of the Dead Man's Thumb, 
To a Curse at Death with a dying breath, 

Here's Death in a Draught of Rum ! 



Here' s to Hell, toss it off in a qiiaff, lads, 
Drink the health of the Devil and laicgh, 

lads, 
Pledge the tale of the Wheat and the 

Chaff, lads. 

Here' s to Hell ! 

To the Dead in the Dismal Sea, 

To the Bleaching Bones on the Beach, 

To a hate-born stroke of the Valiant Folk, 
And the Tunes that the Sea can teach ! 

Here' s the Sea, for her grey clutch has 

gotye, 
May her salt kisses poison and rot ye, 
By the Soul of the Beast who begot ye. 
Here s the Sea ! 

To a slash at the heart of a Don, 

To the Port that never may be, 
Drink deep to the Ghosts of the Spanish Hosts, 

Who loom in the Mists of the Sea ! 



Songs of Good Fightifig 

Here's to Hell, toss it off in a quaff, lads, 
Drink the health of the Devil and laugh, 

lads, 
Pledge the tale of the WJieat and the 

Chaff, lads, 

Here' s to Hell ! 

—1895 



40 



OF THE GREAT LAKES AND 
THE SEA 

AS SAID THE SEA :— 

NOW, list to me, said the Cresting Sea, 
ye wastrel spawn of land. 
Ere that ye claim, so confident, kin to 
the Master's band ; 
For I am grey as Time is grey, for I am the 

Twin of Time. 
I have seen the haze of the Elder Days, I have 

looked on the ancient rime, 
I have battled with man, I have battled with 

cliff, I have battled with ships and dune, 
At the Altar of Fate I pledge my hate that 

none may be immune. 
Though I be grey with baffled deeds, yet red 

is the race I ran, 
No rest I take my thirst to slake till the Earth 

be purged of man. 
From this, my end, no force can bend, no 

power my lust can curb, 
To wrack the timbered ships of man, pitiless, 

acerb. 



41 



Songs of Good Fighting 

I have glutted and gorg ''. on the meat of them 

that take to the Sea in ships, 
And many there be who yet through me shall 

kiss the grey-white lips. 
And I shall own no shackle nor clamp, nor feel 

no yoke nor goad — 
Highway to Hell, where the buoys knell, I am 

the chosen road. 
Born of a birth with Time was I and we yet 

feel our youth, 
Nor age shall teach each unto each, the lilt of 

the Song of Ruth ; 
For wide is the swale and strong and hale, and 

the sea-folk know their kin, 
And I am the gate to God's Estate and look 

that they enter in. 
This is the plan since we began. Time and I, to 

teach, 
And show to man his farther span, the length 

of his manhood's reach ; 
So I cozen some to the well-earned death, but 

some I show at a stroke, 
For all shall need some teaching ere they fare 

to the Thrice-tried Folk. 



42 



Of the Great Lakes and the Sea 

The Long Dead Stars have whispered me the 

secrets of the Pit, 
And this I know that there they go, the thief, 

the hypocrite. 
And them that lurk by woman's smile and idle 

out their days, 
And them that drown in the sluggish town nor 

know the Master's ways. 
But the Utter Garth shall be their hearth, who 

have learned the things I show — 
That with breast to wave they yet may save 

their manhood ere they go. 
And I have married with the Morn that men 

may come of it, 
And I have married with the Night that death 

be fair and fit. 
So if ye claim for kin of mine, speak quick ! my 

tale is spun, 
I have marked some men for the Hall to-night 

and the dark has just begun. 



AND THE LAKES SPAKE:- 



W 



E HAVE done thy deeds in little, we 
have writ thy tale in small. 
Yet are we of one Mother, yet are 
we of a blood ; 



43 



Songs of Gc^d Fighting 



Close-irked by scarp and headland, held hard, 
the great cliff's thrall, 
Yet has our song been as thy song, oh Lord 
of the Wider Flood. 

Erie her low-lilting surge sings to sedge 
and shore, 
Superior is murm'rous with the bass of 
mighty things, 
All the winds from Michigan croon it o'er 
and o'er, 
Ontario and Huron are lush with whis- 
perings. 

Riant through a continent, blustrous at 
our will. 
Syllabling a summer song, chaunting 
runes of wrath. 
Lissom with limpidity, purling Peace Be 
Still, 
Writhen sore with ravening, Death is 
in our path. 

We have thy pride in little, we have gorged 
our maw in small, 
Master of Man, or Servant, as freaks our way- 
ward whim, 

Each to his meed fulfilling the Summons and 
the Call, 



44 



Of the Great Lakes and the Sea 

For we, as Thou, oh Larger Sea, bow to the 
will of Him. 

Erie wattled with the sun, guards her 
garnered dead, 
Superior wards her secrets well in her 
unfathomed breast, 
A winding sheet is Michigan over many 
spread, 
Ontario and Huron are vaward in the 
quest. 

And when forespent with Time, his race, 
it yet may come to be, 
'Twas thine the wider scope and pace, 
that He has choiced the Sea, 
His palimpsest where He loves best to 
screen His power and will — 
Yet may you see, in smaller script, our 
story written still. 



BUT THE ELDERS OF ALL TIME 
SHALL SAY:— 



F 



EOFFS of the Mighty Hand 

Here, beyond, above ! 
In the Great Design, no not one line 

Can ye ken the meaning of. 



45 



So7igs of Good Fighting 



Braggarts ye are, with Time, 

Prating of what may be, 
While the Stars stand nigh to give the lie 

Thy sparse cosmogony. 

Sib are the Lakes and Sea, 

Sib are the Sky and Beach, 
The Land is kin and each has been 

A brother unto each. 

The dust of the world is One 

One is the Sea and Sod, 
The Night is one with the Urgent Sun 

In villeinage to God. 

Peace to the Lashing Lakes, 
And peace to the Braggart Sea, 

For each repeat the Paraclete 
His rede, unwittingly. 

What ye have done in deeds ? 

What ye have done to men ? 
Ye may not know, the plan reads slow — 

Ye know not how nor when. 

An embassage alike. 

The Lakes, the Sky, the Sea, 
As on they fare to Him they bear 

An equal ministry. 



46 



Of the Great Lakes and the Sea 

Master of All that are ! 

Master of All which were ! 
Thy churls forget, while we do yet 

A wait the Vintager ! 

i8g8 



47 



ENVOY. 

IF one could hear aright the murmurings 
Of some shore -stranded sea- shell as it 
sings, 
It might be then that he would come to 
know 
An inkling of the Planner' s purposing s. 

The weary shuttle can no more divine 
Of how its thread looks in the whole design. 
Than we poor shuttles in the hand of Fate 
Can fathom, of the plan a single line. 

i8g6 



48 



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